Merrick / Nemo 7 best short stories by Leonard Merrick

1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-3-96799-630-2
Verlag: Tacet Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 144, 64 Seiten

Reihe: 7 best short stories

Leonard Merrick was an English novelist. Although largely forgotten today, he was widely admired by his peers; J. M. Barrie called Merrick the 'novelist's novelist.' This book contains: - Aribaud's Two Wives. - The Attack in the Rue de la Presse. - The Doll in the Pink Silk Dress. - The Elegant de Fronsac. - Fluffums. - A Millionaire's Romance. - The Propriety of Pauline.

Leonard Merrick (21 February 1864 7 August 1939) was an English novelist.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Merrick, Leonard

Nemo, August

Leseproben

"ONCE," remarked the poet Tricotrin, pitching his pen in the air, "there were four suitors for the Most Beautiful of her Sex. The first young man was a musician, and he shut himself in his garret to create a divine melody, which should he dedicated to her. The second lover was a chemist, who experimented day and night to concoct a unique perfume which she alone might use. The third, who was a floriculturist, aspired constantly among his bulbs to evolve a lavender rose which should immortalize the lady's name."

"And the fourth," inquired that luckless composer Nicolas Pitou, "what did that fourth suitor do?"

"The fourth suitor waited for her every afternoon in the sunshine, while the others were at work, and married her with great éclat. The moral of which is that, instead of cracking my head to make a sonnet to Claudine, I shall be wise to put on my hat and go to meet her."

"I rejoice that the dénouement is arrived at," Pitou returned, "but it would be even more absorbing if I had previously heard of Claudine."

"Miserable dullard!" cried the poet. "Do you tell me that you have not previously heard of Claudine? She is the only woman I have ever loved."

"A-ah!" rejoined Pitou. "Certainly I have heard of her a thousand times—only she has never been called 'Claudine' before."

"Well, well," said Tricotrin, "we are all liable to errors of the heart. Claudine, however, represents the devotion of a lifetime! I think seriously of writing a tragedy for her to appear in."

"I shall undertake to weep copiously at it if you present me with a pass," affirmed Pitou. "She is an actress, then, this Claudine? At what theater is she blazing—the Montmartre?"

"How often I find occasion to lament that your imagination is no larger than the Quartier! Claudine is not of Montmartre at all, at all! My poor friend, have you never heard that there are theaters on the Grande Boulevards?"

"The rumor has reached me, I confess. So, you betake yourself to haunts of fashion? Now I begin to understand why you have become so prodigal with the blacking. For some time I have had the intention of reproaching you with your shoes—our finances are not equal to such luster."

"Ah, when one truly loves, money is no object!" said Tricotrin. "However, if it is time mis-spent to write a sonnet to her, it is even more unprofitable to pass the evening justifying one's shoes." And, picking up his hat, the poet ran down the stairs and made his way as fast as his legs would carry him to the Comédie Royale.

He arrived at the stage door with no more than three minutes to spare, and disposing himself in a graceful attitude, waited for Mdlle. Claudine Hillairet to come out. It might have been observed that his confidence deserted him while he waited, for although it was perfectly true that he adored her, he had omitted to add that the passion was not mutual. He was conscious that the lady might resent his presence on the doorstep; and, in fact, when she appeared, she said nothing more tender than:

"Mon Dieu, again you! What do you want?"

"How can you ask?" sighed the poet. "I came to walk home with you lest an electric tram knocked you down at one of the crossings. What a magnificent performance you have given this evening! Superb!"

"Were you in the theater?"

"In spirit! My spirit, which no official can exclude, is present every night, though sordid considerations force me to remain corporeally in my attic. Transported by admiration, I even burst into frantic applause there. How perfect is the sympathy between our souls!"

"Listen, my boy," she said, "you are crazy, and I am sorry for your relatives, if you have any, you must be a great grief to them. But I wish you to understand that I cannot have you dangling after me and talking this bosh. What do you suppose can come of it?"

"Fame shall come of it," averred the poet, "fame for us both! Do not figure yourself that I am a dreamer. Not at all! I am practical, a man of affairs. Are you content with your position in the Comédie Royale? No, you are not. You occupy a subordinate position; you play the rôle of a waiting-maid, which is quite unworthy of your genius, and understudy the ingénue, who is a portly matron in robust health. The opportunity to distinguish yourself appears to you as remote as Mars. Do I romance, or is it true?"

"It is true," she said. "Well?"

"Well, I propose to alter all this, I! I have the intention of writing a great tragedy and when it is accepted I shall stipulate that you, and you alone, shall thrill Paris as my heroine. When the work of my brain has raised you to the pinnacle for which you were born, when the theater echoes with our names, I shall fall at your feet, and you will murmur: 'Gustave—I love thee'!"

"Why does not your mother do something?" she asked. "Is there nobody to place you where you might be cured? A tragedy! Imbecile! I am a comédienne to the finger tips! What should I do with your tragedy, even if it were at the Français itself?"

"You are right," said Tricotrin. "I shall turn out a brilliant comedy instead! And when the work of my brain has raised you to the pinnacle for which you were born, when the theater echoes with our names——"

She interrupted by a peal of laughter which disconcerted him hardly less than her annoyance.

"It is impossible to be angry with you long," she declared, "you are too amusing. Also as a friend I do not object to you violently. Come, I advise you to be content with what you can have, instead of crying for the moon."

"Well, I am not unwilling to make a shift with it in the meantime," returned Tricotrin, "but friendship is a poor substitute for the heavens—and we shall see what we shall see. Tell me now, they mean to revive 'La Curieuse' at the Comédie, I hear. What part in it have you been assigned?"

"Ah," exclaimed Mdlle. Hillairet, "is it not always the same thing? I dust the same furniture with the same feather brush, and I say 'Yes,' and 'No,' and 'Here is a letter, madame.' That is all."

"I swear it is infamous," cried the poet. "It amazes me that they fail to perceive that your gifts are buried. One would suppose that managers would know better than to condemn an artiste d'esprit to perform such ignominious rôles. Also the critics! Why do not the critics call attention to an outrage which continues year by year? It appears to me that I shall have to use my influence with the press." And so serious was the tone in which he made this boast, that the fair Claudine began to wonder if she had, after all, underrated the position of her out-at-elbows gallant.

"Your influence?" she questioned, with an eager smile. "Have you, then, influence with the critics?"

"We shall see what we shall see," repeated Tricotrin, significantly. "I am not unknown in Paris, and I have your cause at heart—I may make a star of you yet. But while we are on the subject of astronomy, one question! When my services have transformed you to a star, shall I still be compelled to cry for the moon?"

Mdlle. Hillairet's tones quivered with emotion as she murmured how grateful to him she would be, and it was understood, when he took leave of her, that if he indeed accomplished his design, his suit would no longer be hopeless.

The poet pressed her hand ardently and turned homeward in high feather; and it was not until he had trudged a mile or so that the rapture in his soul began to subside under the remembrance that he had been talking through his hat.

"In fact," he admitted to Pitou when the garret was reached, "my imagination took wings unto itself; I am committed to a task beside which the labors of Hercules were as child's play. The question now arises how this thing, of which I spoke so confidently, is to be effected. What do you suggest?"

"I suggest that you allow me to sleep," replied Pitou, "for I shall feel less hungry then."

"Your suggestion will not advance us," demurred Tricotrin. "We shall, on the contrary, examine the situation in all its bearings. Listen! Claudine is to enact the waiting-maid in 'La Curieuse,' which will be revived at the Comédie Royale, in a fortnight's time; she will dust the Empire furniture, and say 'Yes' and 'No' with all the intellect and animation for which those monosyllables provide an opening. Have you grasped the synopsis so far? Good! On the strength of this performance, it has to be stated by the foremost dramatic critic in Paris, that she is an actress of genius. Now, how is it to be done? How shall we induce Labarregue to write of her with an outburst of enthusiasm in La Voix?"

"Labarregue?" faltered Pitou. "I declare the audacity of your notion wakes me up!"

"Capital!" said Tricotrin, "we are making progress already. Yes, we must have Labarregue—it has never been my motto to do things by halves. Dramatically, of course, I should hold a compromising paper of Labarregue's; I should say, 'Monsieur, the price of this document is an act of justice to Mademoiselle Claudine Hillairet.' Is it agreed? Good! Sit down—you will write from my dictation?"

"However——" said Pitou.

"However—I anticipate your objection—I do not hold such a paper. Therefore that scene is cut! Well, let us find another! Where is your fertility of resource?—Mon Dieu! Why should I speak to him at all?"

"I do not figure myself that you will speak to him—you would never get the chance."

"Precisely my own suspicion! What follows? Instead of wasting my time seeking an interview which would not be granted—"

"And which would lead to nothing, even if it were...